


Night of the Living Abed

by buffyaddict13



Category: Community
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst and Humor, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Pop Culture, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 20:30:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyaddict13/pseuds/buffyaddict13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abed discovers the reason he's always been different. Plus: fish stick jenga, inappropriate Pierceness, zombiehood, and giant cookies!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Relativism, Reason, and Reality

**Author's Note:**

> Timing/Spoilers: This takes place a few months after Abed's Uncontrollable Christmas. Spoilers for all eps up to, and including, 2x11.  
> Warnings: Off screen minor character death, weird (2nd person) pov, and eleventy billion pop culture references. This fic is a standalone story, but it also works as a kind of sequel to my multi-fandom fic Wonderland. 
> 
> Originally posted to LJ.

Uncle Rami handles most of the funeral arrangements. He thinks picking out the casket so you don't have to will make you feel better, so you let him. He's been drinking, which makes him talk nonstop. You don't mind. The more Rami Nadir talks, the less you have to. He talks about you as a child, he tells you stories about your parents when they were young and happy. Well, young anyway.    
  
You look at the photograph display next to Rami's affordable, yet elegant choice of coffin. Annie and Britta helped you with the photos. It's not like you couldn't sift through the photographs yourself, you just didn't want to. You can't figure out how to act. You find yourself pretending to be Buffy Summers (although you've always considered yourself more of a Xander) from the  _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_  episode _The Body._  There are plenty of television shows that deal with the mechanics of death, but very few that deal with the aftermath. Except for  _Six Feet Under._  But you gave up on that halfway through season four. Besides, it would take the combined efforts of Weta Workshop and Industrial Light and Magic to make your dad look like himself again. The boiler blew up at the restaurant. It looks like you won't have to take over  _Falafel Forever_  after all.   
  
When you told the study group what happened, they thought you were joking. Exploding boilers are the stuff of TV sitcoms. They're a third-act deus ex machina, a chance to give the well-muscled action hero the opportunity to leap out of a burning building. Or maybe they're the stuff of  _Looney Tunes_ . A boiler explodes, and Bugs emerges stumbling through the smoke, birds chirping around the giant pink lump on his head. But no. Nobody emerged from the smoke this time. Your father is gone. No more weary sighs or eye rolls when you tell him about your latest film. No more complaints about how you only come home to do laundry. No more awkward hugs. No more affectionate mutterings of  _shakheef_ , Arabic for "misfit", when he passes you on the stairs.   
  
Thinking about your father makes your stomach hurt. Your palms are sweating, so you think about being a  _shakheef_  instead. You wonder if there really is an island for misfit toys somewhere. Maybe that's what the island on  _Lost_  was. And if you lived there, what kind of toy would you be? You're trying to decide between a pair of stilts with malfunctioning springs and a plush stork filled with popped bubble wrap when Rami pulls you out of your thoughts.   
  
"You're such a  _mo'jiza_ ," he tells you proudly, sliding one big arm around your shoulders. "A real miracle. Your father ever tell you about when you were born? So small, so skinny." He pulls you closer, exhales alcohol fumes into your face.   
  
You want to be somewhere else. Back in the dorm watching  _Farscape_ . Playing hide and seek with Troy. Coloring  _Human Beings Rule!_  posters with Annie. Even making a diorama would be better than this. You pat your pocket and feel the familiar shape of your cell. You wonder if you can tempt Pierce to come and get you with the promise of energon cubes.   
  
"You were born two months early, Abed." Rami wipes at his eyes with the palm of his hand. "No one thought you would live. Even the doctors did not have hope."   
  
You're familiar with the story. You know you were born premature, that you were a sick baby. Fussy. You cried all the time. The only thing that quieted you was when your father finally had the good sense to put you in front of the television. Big Bird and Oscar the Grouch stopped your crying. Even now you can still sing along to  _Sunny Days_  without missing a beat.   
  
There's a good crowd here. Miscellaneous aunts and uncles, some cousins, your father's friends. Heads are bowed, faces grim, eyes wet. Everyone is connected in their grief. Everyone except you. The room is a network of sorrow and here you are, a stand-a-lone computer. You wish Abra was here. You could take her someplace with a bouncy castle. Someplace where you could think. And bounce.   
  
The funeral home is over a hundred years old. You're surrounded by antique furniture, velvet curtains, and flowered wallpaper. An ornately framed painting depicts two children crossing a bridge; an angel hovers protectively above them. You contemplate the painting, lips pursed. You decide your mother would like it. Your mother is Catholic, your father was Muslim. The existence of angels was the one thing your parents agreed on when it came to religion. Sometimes you envy Shirley her faith. Your belief in God feels tenuous right now. According to Islamic tradition, there are 99 names for God. You can't remember more than 15, but you can name all 97 episodes of  _Newsradio_  in alphabetical order.   
  
"--and then you died," Uncle Rami says through a cloud of whiskey vapor.   
  
You're no longer interested in the comedic stylings of Stephen Root and Dave Foley.   
  
"I...what?" This is new.   
  
"Didn't Fadel ever tell you?" Rami taps your chest with a finger. "You were a week old and you stopped breathing. The doctors couldn't get you back for almost three minutes. They had to use those little paddles on you." Rami momentarily removes his arm from your shoulder and holds imaginary paddles over an imaginary baby and blurts, "Psssssht."    
  
You've seen enough episodes of ER to know that's not what Defibrillator paddles sound like, but this doesn't seem the time to point that out.   
  
Rami pats your cheek a little too hard. "And poof, you come back to us. Such a _mo'jiza_ . My brother was so proud of you."   
  
You smile dutifully at the compliment. Fadel Nadir was many things, but he was not proud of you. He never understood you. But he did love you. You never doubted that.   
  
There's a familiar figure in the doorway. Jeff is standing there in a suit. It's not a $6,000 suit, but he still looks movie-star good. Britta is on his right, Annie is on his left. And there's Shirley. Peirce looms behind Shirley's frizzy and your eyes sting. You didn't even have to bribe him. And peering out from behind Pierce's shoulder is Troy. Thank God.   
  
Pierce barrels past the rest of the group and heads straight for you.    
  
"Sorry for your loss," he mutters, glancing around. "Hey, is there food at this thing?"   
  
Annie and Britta look as if Peirce just licked the coffin. Shirley punches Pierce's arm in disgust. Jeff sighs.   
  
" _What_ ?" Peirce huffs. "Sadness makes me hungry."   
  
You point through the doorway into the next room. "There's coffee and hors d'ouvres right through there."   
  
"Thanks Abed," the older man says, mispronouncing your name. As usual. He hurries off toward the snacks.   
  
Somehow, Britta and Shirley remove your uncle and Rami's arm is replaced with Jeff's.    
  
"How are you holding up?" he asks.   
  
You don't have time to answer because Troy throws his arms around you like you're his favorite football. He hugs you hard--too hard--but you don't mind. You hug him back. You make sure to pat his shoulder so he can tell you're glad to see him. After a moment Troy steps back and you look at each other. His eyes flick to the doorway, then back to you. You nod your permission.    
  
"Go for it."   
  
Troy beams, takes a few steps, then stops. "Is there a big cookie?" he asks hopefully.   
  
"Sorry," you tell him. "But there are three kinds of cheese." You pause. "And falafel." Not that you'll ever eat that particular dish again.   
  
Troy nods thoughtfully and follows Pierce.   
  
Jeff moves to the photo display, leaving Annie and Britta to flank you. They both pat your arms, as if they're trying to put out tiny, invisible flames. Or maybe they expect you to literally fall apart any moment, and they're trying to hold you together. Shirley hands you a folded tissue, clearly prepared for some kind of imminent breakage.   
  
"Thank you for coming," you say, and pocket the tissue.   
  
Annie rests her head on your shoulder. "Oh Abed," she says in a watery voice, "I'm so sorry."   
  
You look down at her dark hair, and wonder if you're supposed to comfort  _her_ . She's so young. She's really just a kid. Like Buffy's little sister, Dawn. So yeah, you are supposed to comfort her.   
  
"It's going to be okay," you tell her. Because that's what people say.   
  
* * *   
  
You stare at the ceiling.   
  
You can't sleep.   
  
The bottom bunk is too low.   
  
The top bunk is too high.   
  
You've taken to lying in the dresser drawer Jeff stuffed you in during the Night of the Drunk Dial. You can't sleep, but it's fun to swing your legs in time to the music. Right now you're listening to Corey Hart sing about a boy in a box. It's night, but you're not wearing sunglasses. You  _are_  wearing a purple boa though. It's very soft.   
  
It's good to be back in the dorm. Troy's been spending a lot of time with you, Pavel too. Rami has been cleaning out the house. You already packed the contents of your bedroom and a few pieces of furniture into a storage unit. Rami's wife is a realtor; she'll take care of selling the house. At least you don't have to worry about getting a job for a while. The insurance money will cover the next three semesters, maybe four. You could probably even afford a studio apartment if you drop cable. Like that'll ever happen. But if worse comes to worse, you can switch from Lucky Charms to the generic Magic Stars. They're delicious, just not magically so.   
  
You don't bother counting sheep. There's only one thing that gets you to sleep when you feel like this: counting movies. You start with Emilio Estevez and work your way through the rest of the Brat Pack.   
  
You've always liked counting things. Numbers are easier to understand than people. Although you're better at understanding people--and their emotions--than you used to be. You can generally figure out how people are feeling through facial expressions, tone of voice, and context clues. But expressing your own feelings? That's hard. That's why you use movies. Movies and television aren't just entertainment, they're language.    
  
You love television because every episode has a resolution. Plot lines are tied up. There are too many questions in life, too many plot threads left dangling. And there's one dangling now, you can feel it. There's something wrong, something besides what happened to your dad. You can't put your finger on it, but you'll figure it out. You always do. That's why you observe everything and everyone. You catalog what's going on around you as easily as your DVD collection.    
  
So far, your left foot is the only part of you that's managed to fall asleep. Your mind drifts from movies to Uncle Rami. You can't help thinking about what he said at the funeral home.  _You died._  You were dead. You wonder why Mom or Dad never said anything.   
  
* * *   
  
You stare dully at the fish sticks in front of you. Jeff and Britta are arguing over this morning's Anthropology assignment.    
  
"I just don't see what the big deal is," Jeff says. His tone is reasonable, but you can still hear the thread of annoyance wound through each word. You know Jeff pretty well.   
  
"How is watching  _George of the Jungle_  going to teach us anything?" Britta demands angrily.   
  
"Well, for one thing," you point out, "it teaches us Brendan Fraser will accept virtually any role for a paycheck."   
  
Jeff's expression goes smug. "Thank you, Abed."   
  
"But that doesn't mean it's a good assignment. I'd rather watch  _The Gods Must Be Crazy_  again."   
  
"You're right, it  _is_  a stupid assignment," Jeff agrees. "But it's also easy. And easy is the main criteria I look for when it comes to school assignments."   
  
Britta snorts. "Easy is the most important criteria in your choice of--"   
  
"Overruled," Jeff snaps quickly.   
  
Troy notices you're not eating. "Something wrong with the fish sticks?" he asks, taking a bite of his own hot dog.   
  
You point at the offending sticks. "These do not look appetizing."   
  
"We could always play Fish Stick Jenga. It's almost as fun as String Cheese Jenga."   
  
You nod in agreement. "It is fun, but it only works if the fish sticks are burned on the bottom." These sticks look a little on the soggy side. Nobody wants greasy Jenga pieces that crumble in your hand.    
  
Jeff grins slyly. "You could always eat...a  _baggel._ "   
  
Britta rolls her eyes through everyone's laughter. "I wish you would," she tells Jeff . She sticks her tongue out in a display of maturity. "And then choke on it."    
  
You inspect everyone else's food. There are hot dogs, soup, salad, more fish sticks, and Pierce has a tuna sandwich.    
  
Tuna.  _That's_  the answer.   
  
"I want something pink," you announce.   
  
Annie frowns. "What do you mean?" She tilts her head, her ponytail bobs. "I think I have a pink pen in my purse."   
  
Jeff smirks. "As alliterationally appealing as that statement is, don't you mean you have a principle in your backpack?"   
  
Troy's eyes go wide. "You have a principal in your backpack?" He stares in wonder at the backpack beside Annie. "Like a tiny Dean?"   
  
Everyone--except you--stares at Troy.   
  
"Please tell me you're kidding," Jeff says.   
  
"I'm kidding," Troy says obediently. Then, in an aside to you. "But wouldn't that be cool? I'd teach him to sit on my shoulder like a parrot and he could tell me the answers to every test."   
  
"Very cool," you agree. You hold up a hand to Annie. "Thank you, but I don't need a pen. I want pink food."   
  
"Me too," Troy says automatically. "Wait." He considers. "That's girly. No offense, Abed. I want something more manly." He taps his chin, then brightens. "Something blue."    
  
"Why don't the two of you eat a couple of Crayons and shut up," Pierce mutters.   
  
"Pierce's tuna is pink," Britta points out.   
  
"Hey!" Peirce glares at Britta, clearly affronted. "That's just uncalled for." He blinks. "Oh. You mean my sandwich."   
  
Tuna is the right color, but it doesn't have the right consistency. You don't know exactly what you're looking for, but you know what you don't want.   
  
"You could try the vending machine," Shirley suggests doubtfully. "There are lots of unnatural colors in there."   
  
"We could always use markers," Troy suggests. "I could color my hot dog blue."   
  
Pierce opens his mouth, shuts it. "Forget it. That one's way too easy."   
  
You spot the refrigerated case by the sundae bar and mentally snap your fingers. Perfect.   
  
You walk over and Troy follows. You peruse the case hopefully. There's a little collection of yogurt containers, a pile of egg salad sandwiches, some plastic fruit, and a single, misplaced sneaker. You check the yogurt flavors: lemon, key lime pie, blueberry, and--jackpot. Strawberry.   
  
Five minutes later you're back at the table eating pink yogurt. It doesn't taste as good as you thought it would, but at least you don't feel as nauseous. Although having someone hold your hair while you vomit  _is_  on your college trope to-do list.    
  
Troy pokes sadly at his blueberry cup. "I thought blueberry and blue raspberry were the same thing. Like, blueberry was just an abbreviation."   
  
Jeff shakes his head. "And  _yet_ ."    
  
Troy pushes the cup toward the middle of the table. "Anybody want some nasty yogurt?"   
  
Britta chuckles. "With a sell like that, who could resist?"    
  
"Wait." You look from your cold, congealing fish sticks to the yogurt. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"   
  
Troy's brow furrows. "That we should build a magnificent tower out of fish bricks and blueberry mortar?"   
  
"Cool cool cool." You lift a finger, inspired. "And, we could use the little tooth pick flag from Pierce's sandwich on top."   
  
"Do you think we could make the Eiffel Tower?"   
  
"We're going to need more fish sticks."   
  
* * *   
  
The tower doesn't end up looking much like France's famous landmark, but it's still pretty awesome. At least until one of the cafeteria workers kicks you out and sends Blanketlandia's Video Gaming Castle of Awesome into the nearest garbage can. Oh well.   
  
The rest of the day is uneventful. Except your stomach still hurts and it takes you hours to fall asleep. Your emergency horsey pillow doesn't even help. But eventually you slide into a fitful sleep where you dream someone is chasing you. Or maybe you're doing the chasing. When you wake up to pee around 5:00 you can't remember which.   
  
You pad down the hall and pee, still half asleep. You wash your hands and that's when you glimpse your reflection. And just like that, you're wide awake. Your skin is pasty, sickly. You look almost as pale as White Abed. Your eyes are bloodshot. Large purple-black bruises ring your eyes like a mask. You swallow, stunned. Your lips are tinged blue. You look down at your hands. So are your fingernails. Your arms are mottled with bruises. You sway and grab the edge of the sink. There's a loud buzzing in your ears.    
  
You're so afraid your heart should be pounding out of your chest--should be breaking your rib cage in two--but nothing happens. You're silent as a cave. You put a hand to your chest, then your neck, trying to find a pulse. There's nothing.   
  
You put a shaking hand to your head. Your hair is matted. When you run your fingers through it, a huge clump comes out. A piece of your scalp comes with it. You stare at the bloody hole in your head, mouth open.   
  
You try to swallow. Your red eyes look back at you. You decide you're dreaming. This is a nightmare, that's all. You flick the light switch and the shadows evaporate beneath the fluorescent light. Except for you. You look just as dead in the light as you did in the dark. You look dead because you  _are_  dead. Uncle Rami said you died, and he was right.   
  
* * *   
  
You wake to find Troy standing over you.   
  
You're curled on the love seat in your room, Star Burns' top hat pulled low over your face. You've been here, barring bathroom breaks and late night forages for strawberry yogurt, for the past two days.    
  
"Dude, are you okay?"   
  
Troy holds out his hand and you manage a weak high five.   
  
"Yeah." Your answer is automatic. The truth is you're not okay. You're about as okay as the second Star Wars trilogy. You feel lost and alone, like Buffy when she crawled out of the grave in season six. Which is ironic, since you're in the process of crawling into one. Your head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton. Your mouth tastes like rusty nails. You can see the love seat cushion beneath your arm, but it feels like you're floating a few inches above it. Weird.   
  
"How come you've been skipping classes? Anthropology sucks without you, man. And we're supposed to be working on the Kick Puncher prequel, remember?"   
  
Oh, right. Fist Jumper.    
  
"I need you to write a script where fists have the power of jumps. I tried, but I just can't get Fist Jumper's motivation right."   
  
You close your eyes. Open them. "I'm sorry, Troy."    
  
Troy looks worried. You're pretty good at recognizing this particular expression. It's almost exactly how that laundromat attendant looked when he pulled you out of that clothes dryer a few years back. And how Britta looked when she thought you were going to get kicked out of school last December.   
  
"Um, Abed? You don't look so good."   
  
Crap. Troy  _knows_ . If anybody on campus could recognize the living dead besides you, of course it would be Troy. You turn away from him and mumble into the back of the love seat.   
  
"I know. Don't look at me."   
  
Troy chuckles uncertainly. "I've seen your face before. Sick or not, I still like you," Troy says, sincere as always.   
  
You don't answer. You don't know what to say. If Dean Pelton finds out you're the _żywy trup_ \--living dead--he's going to kick you out of Greendale for sure. You wish you could live the rest of your life on a couch in Central Perk on  _Friends_ . You wish you were a silicon doll with a foam head and ball and socket armatures instead of a zombie. And strangely, you really do wish all dogs were blue. But most of all, you wish--just for now--Troy would go away. You turn yourself off like a television, let your thoughts grow smaller and smaller until they're nothing but a pin point.   
  
* * *   
  
" _Abed_ ."   
  
You jerk awake. You're still on the love seat, turned toward the wall. So much for waking up next to Joey and Chandler. Jeff is here. And Annie and Troy are whispering behind him. Great. You don't want to deal with them, you don't want to see their fear and disgust when they look at you. You replace them with fictional characters instead. Fictional people don't seem to mind zombies all that much. They certainly never have trouble believing they exist. Maybe because until very recently, zombies were fictional too. Betty Suarez would probably be nice to zombies. She was always good about not judging people. Joey Tribbiani would freak out of course, but he'd probably be okay once you gave him a meatball sandwich. President Jed Bartlett could even pass a law protecting zombies. Buffy would probably kill you, but Willow might try and cure you with magic first. That would be cool. You're wondering how long it would take for Betty and Willow to become friends when you feel yourself being pulled upright. Crap.   
  
Your top hat tumbles off.   
  
Jeff is staring at you and you stare back. You wait for him to scream like a girl, to jump back like you're radioactive.   
  
"Okay, that's it," Jeff snaps. He looks upset, maybe annoyed, but he's a nowhere near horrified. "We're going to see Nurse Jackie right now."   
  
"He can't help me," you tell him. The words take a surprising amount of energy to get out.   
  
"Nurses help all kinds of people," Troy says. "He's gonna help you too."   
  
You're about to argue when the floor disappears and your legs turn to string. Your head is the size and density of a watermelon. Jeff grunts in surprise as you go limp, Troy swears. Annie calls your name. Your last conscious thought is regret at missing tonight's  _Cougar Town._   
  
* * *   
  
When you open your eyes you're in a hospital bed. You haven't been in the hospital since you were a baby. Since you died. Jeff is seated in a plastic chair watching you. Troy is in a chair leaning against the other side of the bed. His head is pillowed on your chest and he's holding your hand.   
  
Annie is standing guard at the door. Shirley's leaning against the far wall, large purse clasped in her arms. Pierce takes up the bathroom doorway.   
  
"Hey," you say groggily. "What's going on?"   
  
Troy snorts and sits up. He blinks at you, tears in his eyes. "You're alive."   
  
"Not really," you admit.   
  
Jeff takes charge. "Okay Abed, do you mind telling us why you've been starving yourself?"   
  
You haven't been starving yourself. Not really. It's not your fault the living dead only have one food group. Besides, you've got strawberry yogurt coming out of your ears.   
  
"I'm not."   
  
"The doctor said you were dehydrated," Britta says, her face pinched with concern.   
  
"I don't have to be Doc Potterywood to know prolonged dehydration can lead to kidney and heart failure," Jeff says seriously.   
  
Troy nods. "And your electrolytes were all crazy and stuff! You're gonna burn them out."   
  
"Electrolytes aren't actually lights," you explain patiently.   
  
"Honey, you don't have to look like those models in the magazines," Shirley tells you.   
  
"I'm not trying to look like a model," you say, although you do have the height.    
  
"Red alert!" Annie whispers, gesturing furiously toward the bathroom. "Wait. Downgrade that to a yellow. Nurse Busybody took the other hallway."   
  
"How come you're all allowed to be in here at the same time?" you ask. On television they always allow a million people to visit the patient's hospital room, but in real life you're not supposed to have this many visitors, are you? You feel like you're on a soap opera, but with better lighting.   
  
"As soon as somebody comes, everyone hides in the bathroom except for Annie and me," Jeff says.   
  
"And that actually works?"   
  
"We haven't had to do it yet. But I'm sure, like everything else we do, it'll go off without a hitch." Jeff gives you a wry smile.   
  
You return it.   
  
You push yourself up against the pillows, glance around the room. At the IV in your arm. "How come I'm not at the campus clinic?"   
  
"Because we couldn't wake you up," Annie says. "And Troy started to hyperventilate so Shirley called 911."   
  
Troy holds up a paper bag. "You would not believe how much air this thing holds."   
  
You look from face to face in confusion. Your confusion is fading only to be replaced with more confusion. Why isn't anyone afraid of you?   
  
You turn to Troy. "Why aren't you scared?"   
  
"I am," he says, shuddering. "Hospitals always freak me out."    
  
"No. I mean why aren't you afraid of  _me._ " You point to your face. "How I look."   
  
Jeff and Britta exchange a glance. "And...how do you look?" Britta asks uncertainly.   
  
"Like a terrorist," Peirce blurts.   
  
"This is just a warning," Jeff says, "but if you say stop-motion I'm going to get the nurse."   
  
" _No_ ," you say, exasperated. "I'm not stop-motion, I'm dead. I mean, just look at my face." You hold up your arms. "My skin." You're still marbled with bruises, your veins are purple-blue worms beneath your skin. The strange thing is--stranger than being a zombie even--your stomach still hurts. Aren't the living dead supposed to be impervious to pain? Then again, you still seem to have a surprising amount of brain function, so maybe the two things are related.   
  
"You're...dead," Jeff repeats flatly.   
  
"That's what I'm trying to tell you."   
  
Jeff rubs his face wearily. "Abed, you're not dead."   
  
You roll your bloodshot eyes. "You're telling me you don't see the chunk missing from my scalp? I've got enough bruises around my eyes to be Robin." And everyone knows you make a much better Batman. "How are you not seeing this?"   
  
Shirley puts a hand to her mouth.   
  
Britta looks like she's just been punched in the boobs.   
  
Jeff shakes his head, apparently as confused as you. " _What_ ?"   
  
"Dude, you're wrinkling my brain. Are you trying to say you're a... _zombie_ ?" Troy asks slowly, eyes wide. Finally, there's a little of the shock you've been waiting for.   
  
"Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying." You gesture to your face again. "I mean, it's pretty obvious. Frankly, I thought there'd be a lot more yelling." You're careful not to look at your best friend. "And maybe some crying."    
  
Jeff stands and walks to the bed. He puts his hand on your shoulder. "Abed, the only thing that's obvious is you're having another delusion."   
  
"I'm not delusional."   
  
"But Abed, you look normal. You don't look like a zombie," Annie protests.   
  
It's strange that they can't see the truth. Maybe they don't want to. That must be it. You point a finger at Jeff. " _You're_  in denial."   
  
"Only one of is in denial, and it's not me," Jeff says.   
  
Well then what's the problem? You need to ferret out the truth like Mulder. And there's your answer. The truth  _is_  out there. It's exactly where it should be, in an episode of  _The X-Files_ .   
  
"Folie à deux," you say quickly. "It's a French expression that means 'a madness shared by two.' It's also the name of a season five episode of  _The X-Files_ . It was about a man who could see his boss was a monster. Eventually Mulder and Scully could see the same thing; they experienced a shared delusion, only it was actually the truth. You guys think you're sharing truth, but you're the ones having a delusion, not me. You see me the way you want me to be, not the way I really am."   
  
Nobody says anything. Jeff's face goes tight. You can't tell if he's angry, sad, or both.   
  
"You should all leave," you say. "Before I start trying to eat your brains."   
  
"Oh, Abed," Annie whispers. She's wearing her sad-eyed Disney Princess look. You picture the Ark of the Covenant and look away.   
  
Troy shakes his head. "I'll never leave you," he says defiantly.   
  
"Well you're not getting  _my_  brain," Peirce says, moving back toward the bathroom. "It's full of good ideas. And all my computer passwords."   
  
"I know zombies are popular right now," Jeff says. "Just look at the  _Walking Dead_ franchise. And maybe, for some reason, you wish you really were a zombie. But you're  _not_ ."   
  
You fold your hands in your lap. Most of your fingernails have fallen off.   
  
"This isn't some Rankin/Bass Christmas Wonderland," Jeff continues. "You're trying to force us into Night of the Living Abed."   
  
Troy nods in approval. "I like it."   
  
Jeff shoots Troy a disgusted look. "Really? You're not going to like it when your BFF gets kicked out of school because he can't tell the difference between reality and fantasy. You're not going to like it if Abed ends up in a padded room."   
  
Troy blinks back tears, stamps his foot. "I  _don't_  like it!"   
  
"Jeff is right," Britta says, and takes one of your hands. She doesn't even flinch at the feel of your skin. Britta might be a technophobe, but at least she's badass. "You've got to--to snap out of this, Abed. It's not funny."   
  
"Death is never funny," you agree. "Unless you're talking about  _Weekend at Bernie's._ " You check with Troy. "Am I right?"   
  
Troy still looks weepy, but he slaps your outstretched hand in solidarity. "That movie isn't funny," he declares. "It's  _hilarious_ ."   
  
Annie gives the hallway a quick glance, then moves to the foot of the bed. She looks down at you, hands twisted together. "Is this why you're not eating anything? You think you're supposed to eat--" she tries hard not to make a face, fails. "--brains?"   
  
"I keep trying to fool myself with strawberry yogurt, but it's not working." You shrug. "I'm on to myself."   
  
Troy sits on the edge of your bed. "I need my brain for making up awesome jokes, but you can have my left arm. Then I could get a robot arm with a net attachment," he says, eyes wide with excitement. "I could catch footballs like butterflies!"   
  
You have to admit, a robot arm with a butterfly net attachment does sound cool.   
  
Troy takes a deep breath, then rolls up his sleeve. He pulls a few fast food packets of ketchup out of a pocket. "I hope ketchup is okay. I'm all out of mustard." He holds his arm out in front of you, offers a ketchup packet with his non-edible arm. "Go ahead. Eat me."   
  
Pierce nearly shrieks. "You can't honestly tell me I'm the only one who just heard that!"   
  
"Troy, I don't think medical science has advanced to the point of robot net arms yet, so why don't you just give Abed the ketchup for now. I won't even ask why you're carrying condiments around in your pocket." Jeff lifts an eyebrow at you. "Can't you just pretend it's blood or something? It's still really creepy and this way everyone gets to keep their limbs."   
  
"I started carrying ketchup around during our chicken finger days," Troy says wistfully. "It's a hard habit to break."   
  
You gently lower Troy's arm back to his side. You wish you had the words to tell him how much he means to you. You can quote dialogue from hundreds of movies, but actually communicating is difficult without a script.   
  
You keep hold of his hand. "Thank you, Troy. You're the Turk to my JD. The Rizzo to my Gonzo. The Chuck to my Morgan."   
  
Troy smiles. "Thank you, but I don't know what that means."   
  
"It means you're my best friend and I could never hurt you." Also, you're not hungry.   
  
"You know, Abed, Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead and Lazarus wasn't a zombie," Shirley says sweetly.   
  
"I know the story." You read the New Testament, after all. You quote a passage from John 11. "'He cried with a loud voice, 'Lazarus come forth!' And he who died came out bound hand and foot with graveclothes, and his face was wrapped with a cloth. Jesus said to them, 'Loose him, and let him go.'" You tilt your head, considering the passage. "It doesn't say what Lazarus looked like under that cloth. Or what he wanted for dinner."   
  
Shirley's eyes narrow and her voice drops at least an octave. "Jesus don't make no zombies, Abed."    
  
"Shhh," Annie whispers, admonishing Shirley. She steps in front of the black woman. "Do you think this could be another version of you, Abed? Only this version is a zombie instead of a vampire?"   
  
It's a valid question, but no. This is you. You shake your head. "I'm sorry Annie, but this is me. I'm being myself. I can talk like Don Draper or Jeff if you want, but I'll still be dead."   
  
Britta folds her arms, leather jacket squeaking. "You're not a zombie. There's no such thing."   
  
You sigh, annoyed. "Don't lampshade me, Britta."   
  
Britta unfolds her arms, throws her hands in the air. "I'm not. I don't even know what that means! I'm not doing anything but--but worrying about you, Abed. I think you need to--to talk to someone about this."   
  
"I'm talking to you."   
  
Britta doesn't look particularly comforted.   
  
Your friends are clearly upset, even scared. But they're scared of what you're saying, not what you  _are_ . There are several explanations for this anomaly. One, they don't see your true appearance. Two, they do see it, they just don't care. Either you're a zombie and they can't see it, or you're not, but think you are. You have been taught to believe what you see. This is the wonder of television and film. But there is no green screen here, no special effects. You flex your fingers into a fist. The skin cracks around each knuckle, green liquid oozes out. You have to believe your own eyes. If you can't trust yourself, how can you trust anyone else?   
  
Conclusion: your friends can't see the real you, the same way Buffy and her friends couldn't see Dawn was the Key in season five. But eventually, they saw the truth. You have faith your friends will too.   
  
Jeff exhales loudly through his nose. "What do we have to do to convince you that you're not dead?"   
  
"Technically I'm the living dead," you correct, "I may have misspoke. That's  _żywy trup_  in Polish." You meet Jeff's eyes. "And you can't convince me to believe something that's not true."   
  
Jeff looks up at the ceiling in frustration. "But that's exactly what you want us to do!"   
  
"What the hell?" A nurse stands in the doorway, hands on hips. "You're not supposed to be in here."   
  
Jeff bends down, whispers in your ear. "This isn't over." He taps your arm with each word. "To. Be. Continued."   
  
Wow, a two-parter. You didn't see  _that_  coming. 


	2. Introduction to Mental Health

You talk to your nurse, and then the doctor. Or, more accurately, they talk. A psychologist shows up to ask you a bunch of questions. You weren't a big fan of therapy even before Professor Duncan's manipulative intervention, you're certainly not interested now. You don't say much. You're nervous around all these strangers. What if you finally get a hankering for brains? It's better if you just keep your mouth shut. You'd rather spend time in your own head anyway, it's where you've always been most comfortable. You pretend you're filming a movie. It's easy to ignore overly personal questions when you're piloting a space ship with Troy. You wish Miss Piggy and Link would pipe down though. Their constant bickering makes it hard to concentrate on Scorpius' latest machinations.   
  
The psychologist waves a hand in front of your face. Within reach of your teeth. Huh. He's braver than he looks.   
  
"Abed? Can you answer the question, please?"    
  
You blink. The  _USS Boobalicious_  is gone. You're back in a brightly-light hospital room only slightly bigger than a cubicle. There are 24 tiles in the ceiling.   
  
"What question?"   
  
"Do you still think you're a zombie?"   
  
"Before I answer, you should probably take a step back."   
  
"Why is that?"   
  
You pat your stomach. "You look pretty tasty."   
  
* * *   
  
The study group treats you like you're dying. Which is silly, since you already died. There's a lot of crying and nose blowing and hand wringing. And that's just from Troy. Annie keeps sniffling and wiping her eyes. Britta looks like she did after her cat died. You're going to be staying at the hospital for an evaluation. You've got 72 hours of macaroni art ahead of you, which is okay. Macaroni is your favorite, after all.   
  
Pierce sits slumped in a chair in the corner of your room. "I can't believe Abed's going to the nut house," he muses. "I thought Chang would end up there long before Abed."   
  
"Abed's not going to the nut house," Britta says angrily. "God, you are such a jackass."   
  
"Chang still has plenty of time to be committed," Jeff points out.   
  
"For you information, Britta, my first wife heard voices for a while."   
  
Everyone stares at Peirce in stunned silence. Shirley speaks for the group. "She did?"   
  
"Yeah. Turns out she accidentally locked the cleaning woman in the basement. It took her three days to figure out she wasn't going crazy."   
  
You're not listening that closely because your right pinky finger just fell off at the base knuckle. It drops onto the floor with a soft  _plop_ . What surprises you isn't that you lost a finger, but that it didn't hurt. Maybe now you can finally prove you're a zombie once and for all.   
  
"My finger just fell off," you announce, holding up the affected hand.   
  
Everyone stops yelling at Pierce.   
  
"Which one?" Pierce squints. "Holy crap, he's right! Oh--wait. Aw come on, five is the regular amount. What are you trying to pull?"   
  
"You're not missing any fingers," Jeff says patiently.   
  
"It didn't even hurt," you say with a shrug. "Just--nothing."   
  
Annie casts a quick glance at Jeff, then pulls on a smile that's about a size too small. "That's because it's still there."   
  
"Does anybody have a pencil? I'll prove I'm not alive."   
  
"This I gotta see," Peirce says, and tosses you a mechanical pencil. Ooh, it's a nice one.   
  
"Okay, watch." You raise the pencil a few inches above your open palm. All you have to do is stab the pencil through your hand. It'll look gross, but it's not like you'll feel anything. Three, two, on--   
  
"Abed!" Jeff screams and snatches the pencil from your hand. He stares at you, shocked. "What the hell are you  _doing_ ?" He whips the pencil back at Pierce. It bounces off the older man's forehead. "Way to go, idiot."   
  
"How am I the idiot?" Pierce demands angrily. "I wasn't the one who was going to stab himself."   
  
"Don't do that," Jeff tells you sternly. He's in lawyer mode now. "We don't need proof. Hurting yourself isn't proof. It's just--" he stops abruptly, his face flushing.   
  
"Crazy?" you supply helpfully. "I just wanted to--"   
  
"We know what you wanted to do," Britta says. "But  _don't._  Just concentrate on getting through this 5150 with flying colors. I know you can do it." She smiles brightly, but the smile doesn't reach her eyes. It's funny how many smiles don't.   
  
"We'll be waiting for you as soon as you get out," Annie adds.   
  
"I'll be waiting with a boom box over my head," Troy says.   
  
You nod, pleased. "Like in  _Say Anything_ ."   
  
Troy gives you a blank look. "It's supposed to rain on Monday. I lost my umbrella but my boom box is  _really_  big. You'd be surprised how dry you can stay under that thing."   
  
Jeff looks on with a combination of affection and exasperation. "I think what these knuckleheads are trying to say is, we're here for you."   
  
Annie kisses your cheek, Britta and Shirley hug you goodbye. Pierce waves and follows the girls out. Troy stops in the doorway and turns back.    
  
"I love you."   
  
You nod. "I know." And then, because you're supposed to say it back, you do. The cool thing is, you mean it. "I love you too." You give him two thumbs up.    
  
"See you soon," Troy says, and then he's gone.   
  
Now it's just you and Jeff.   
  
"Abed," he asks, "can you tell me what this is really about?"   
  
You turn to look at him. "Is this part two of our conversation?"   
  
Jeff nods in agreement. "This is part two."   
  
"It's not about anything but the truth. I'm the walking dead." You look down at your hospital bed. "Well, the sitting dead."   
  
"Okay, but what about the fact the doctors have been taking your blood pressure? Your temperature? Listening to your heart?"   
  
You shrug. "I can't explain that. I don't have a pulse. Maybe they're trying to cover this up."   
  
"Abed, this isn't a conspiracy. You have an amazing imagination, but you can't let it control you. You need to control it."   
  
You don't answer.   
  
"Besides," Jeff continues. "I thought you had to die or get bit by another zombie or be subjected to some kind of plague to become the undead or whatever. What, did you accidentally eat contaminated radioactive waste or something?"   
  
You give Jeff a reproachful look. "That's the lamest thing I've ever heard. No, I died when I was a baby."   
  
Jeff looks surprised. "You...what?"   
  
"I stopped breathing for three minutes. I was as dead as a doornail." You rap lightly on your head. "Still am. The doctors only  _think_  they brought me back." You shrug. "It's probably why they won't admit I'm dead now."   
  
Jeff runs his hands through his hair. "Abed...that's--that's not how it works. I know you're hurting, I know it's been really hard these past few weeks, but--"   
  
You look at Jeff curiously. "Why has it been hard?"   
  
Now Jeff looks flummoxed, as if Annie's giving him her fluttery-eyes sad look. You check the room. Nope, she's not here.   
  
"Well, uh, because of your dad," Jeff finally says.   
  
Oh. "We weren't that close," you admit. "We were never going to be Ryan and Sandy from the O.C., which is fine. I don't think my dad could have pulled off the Peter Gallagher eyebrows."   
  
Jeff stares at you. " _Abed._ "   
  
"I'm tired," you say. You're not, but you've discovered it's an acceptable way to end a conversation.    
  
"You're just as alive as I am," Jeff says softly. "More so. You're the most alive person I know. Jeez Abed, the first day I met you I knew you were somebody special."   
  
You lean back into the pillows and stare at the ceiling. You remember. He called you a shaman. Poor Jeff. You don't want to tell him just how wrong he was. You know the old adage: if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.   
  
"You've got to stop hiding behind some zombie-shaped wall," Jeff continues. "I admit reality is a giant bowl of suck most of the time, but whether you want to admit it or not, it's where you belong." Jeff leans back in his chair, sighs. "Maybe I'm just selfish. In fact, I think we've established that I  _am_  selfish. But I want you in the real world, Abed. In my world. Is that selfish? If it is, too bad. I don't care. Remember when I started Goldbluming over Rich? You told me college is where most mental illnesses start. I know you were talking about me, but right now your words feel a little too prophetic. Please, Abed. I'm begging you. Let this zombie thing go."   
  
There's a little cardboard sign over a red slot in the wall. It says  _Dispose of all sharps here._  The sign is taped to the white plaster. One strip of tape has peeled off the wall. You stare at the curling strip and let the silence speak for you.   
  
It fills the air between you and Jeff. It grows heavier with each passing second.   
  
Even heroic, Hawkeye Jeff can't bear that kind of weight for long.   
  
* * *   
  
You never flunked a test in high school. You got good grades, especially in math. Algebra has always been easy for you. Finding variables among numbers is always easier than understanding the myriad of variables among your peers. You even passed last year's Spanish final. But you flunk the 72-hour hold pretty spectacularly.    
  
You flush the pills they want you take down the toilet. You don't need pills, you need duct tape so you don't lose any more parts. You refuse to eat anything but strawberry yogurt, and refer to yourself as  _żywy trup_ . You're not just being accurate, you're being helpful. You're expanding the staff's vocabulary, teaching them a new language. Sadly, the nurses don't seem the least bit thankful. Everyone treats you like an invalid rather than the terrifying monster you are. You make a half-hearted attempt to bite one of the nurses, but she's wearing a heavy sweatshirt under her scrub top. All you really manage to do is leave a Rorschach of drool on the fabric.   
  
Worst of all, there's no macaroni art.   
  
You're in the middle of drawing a picture of Fist Jumper for Troy when the doctor sits down beside you. You know before he even opens his mouth that you're not going back to Greendale. The look of pity on his face tells you all you need to know. You clasp your hands on your knees while he talks. You nod periodically without bothering to listen to what he's saying. When your left index finger falls onto the floor and rolls under your chair, you both pretend not to notice.   
  
* * *   
  
The next day you're in a facility with the dubious name of Silver Hills. It's located on the very outskirts of Denver. A male nurse and some guy who looks like the Terminator in peach scrubs escort you from the hospital van and whisk you right up to the second floor. This is your new home.    
  
There's a big, sunny day room where the crazy people hang out and watch television. That's a plus. From the windows you can see the large grounds. There are walking paths, trees, and enough flower beds to cheer even the sorriest soul. The nurse drones on, but you're busy cataloging movies that take place in psychiatric facilities and/or mental hospitals. There are quite a few.  _It's Kind of a Funny Story, Girl Interrupted, The Jacket, Shutter Island, K-Pax, 12 Monkeys, I Never Promised You a Rose Garden, Patch Adams,_  and  _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ . You glance around hopefully for any quiet Native American types but there aren't any. Damn. That would have been a nice touch. If you want to go old school, there's always  _The Snake Pit._  It's harder to come up with a realistic portrayal of mental illness on TV. McDreamy did a pretty good job back when he was on  _Once and Again_ . And  _The United States of Tara_  isn't bad, although Tara's sister could use a little of of the Mean Girl treatment. Not that you'd ever do that again. From now on, girls are going to have to find out about their dandruff, split ends, muffin tops, unflattering jeans, and uneven boob size all on their own.   
  
Your room contains a bed, bathroom, desk, and an empty bookshelf. You wish you'd been allowed to bring your movie posters with you. All you have is the duffel bag Troy packed for you. It contains a toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, a few t-shirts, two cardigans, a pair of sweatpants that aren't even yours, and a few pairs of boxers. You're currently wearing flannel pajama bottoms, your Boondocks t-shirt and a striped hoodie. Despite the hoodie, you're still cold. It's not like the dead can count on body heat. You pull a cardigan over the hoodie and wander back out to the day room.   
  
You sit on the couch and study your surroundings. There are 23 DVD cases on the stand by the television. There are 55 books on the bookshelf. Twenty-five fiction, thirty nonfiction.   
  
There are a three rectangular tables along the inner wall. They remind you of the library study room. You feel a twinge of homesickness--schoolsickness really. Friendsickness.   
  
You thought it would take longer to be written out of the study group. It's disappointing, but not unexpected. Dead people generally don't attend college. You drop your head back against the couch. It's too bad real life doesn't have sweeps episodes. That way you could still show up at Greendale every now and then and chase Dean Pelton around the quad. Or let Troy chain you up in Pierce's back yard so you can still play video games together like Simon Pegg and Nick Frost in  _Shaun of the Dead._   
  
There's a girl sitting at one of the tables underlining passages in  _Pride and Prejudice_ . A laugh bubbles in your throat, doesn't quite make it out of your mouth. You could always get up and offer her the Abed guarantee, but you don't move. You'd rather just sit here. You're good at sitting. Just ask Annie.   
  
"Hey, kid. You okay?" A man stands next to you wearing scrubs. He touches your arm in a friendly way. He has black hair that's a little long, it hangs over his forehead. "Lunch is in an hour," he says. He's shorter than you, but most people are. He looks tired, but his smile is bright and honest. His fingers are nicotine stained. He wears an identification card on a Homestar Runner lanyard. That earns him a point right there. The card and name tag over his pocket both read  _George Luz_ .   
  
The girl speaks up from table. "If he was okay he wouldn't be here."   
  
George makes a face. "Ha ha. You're hilarious."   
  
"I know," she says. She turns and offers an unsmiling wink to George.    
  
He winks back, just as serious.   
  
At least this is an interesting place. Not as good as Annie and Shirley bad copping all over campus, but it could be worse.   
  
"Abed, this is River," George says with a flourish of his hand. "River, this is Abed."   
  
"Nice to meet you," you say. You're not sure if it's true, but even as a zombie you still have manners.   
  
River turns her chair so she can see you. "I used to be extra crazy," she says, as if she's discussing the weather. "I was on the locked ward with George, but now I'm about 65% less crazy, so I get to be here. My brother Simon is a nurse too. He's bossy."    
  
George nods in confirmation. "He is."   
  
"Technically George still works on the locked ward. He's just covering for Tom because he's on vacation. I'm glad Tom's gone because he's boring and his breath smells like pickles."   
  
You have now come to the conclusion it  _is_  very nice to meet River.   
  
There's another patient at the far end of the room reading in a recliner. He's got shoulder-length brown hair.    
  
River catches you looking. "That's Adam. He used to be a girl but now he's not."   
  
"Shut up," Adam says, but there's no malice in the words.   
  
"Your hair's stupid," River counters and turns back to you. "Why are you here?"   
  
You tell her the truth. "Because I'm a zombie."   
  
River considers your answer. "How do you know?"   
  
"Because I died."   
  
Now River looks skeptical. "I think you've been misdiagnosed. I'll ask Simon to give you a second opinion. He used to be a doctor."   
  
"How about you concentrate on your book, doll," George says. "Give Abed a chance to settle in."   
  
River regards George carefully, then lifts an eyebrow. "On one condition."   
  
"Oh for Pete's sake." George makes a face, rolls his eyes, and pulls a cell phone from his pocket. He taps a few buttons and the image of a smiling, big-headed baby appears. "There, happy now?"   
  
River studies the screen. A slow smile lights her face.   
  
"She's beautiful," River says. "She looks just like you."   
  
George laughs. "Christ, I hope not. The reason she's beautiful is 'cause she looks like her mom."   
  
River leans forward and plants a quick kiss on George's stubbled cheek. He immediately turns tomato red.   
  
He scratches his head, embarrassed. "What did Dr. Weston say about boundaries?"   
  
"That they're stupid."   
  
"No," George says patiently, "that's what you said."   
  
River blows a raspberry. "You already sound like a nagging father. Good job."   
  
Instead of getting angry, George doffs an imaginary hat and bows. "Why thank you."   
  
That makes River laugh. It's a nice sound.   
  
George turns to go, pauses. "River? Will you show Abed where to go for lunch?"   
  
River tucks a strand of dark hair behind one ear. "Okay."   
  
The nurse gives River a little salute and heads for the door. "See you guys later."   
  
"Tell Ray to come say hi," River calls.   
  
"I will."   
  
You wonder who Ray is. You also wonder why--and how--Adam stopped being a girl.   
  
* * *   
  
You meet River's brother next. Simon Tam is older than you, younger than Jeff. He's walking with a middle-aged red-haired man who seems to be another patient, and a tall, thin dark-haired doctor with a faint Irish accent.   
  
"Hey River," the doctor says. His name tag reads  _Paul Weston_ .   
  
"Hi Paul."   
  
"How are you feeling?"   
  
River gives him a thumbs up. You approve.   
  
"Glad to hear it. We still on for that Chess game later?"   
  
"If you're not tired of losing."   
  
Paul chuckles and exits the ward.   
  
"Hi Abed," Simon says, and shakes your hand. He doesn't say anything about your missing fingers.    
  
Simon leads your small group out into the main corridor. River takes the lead and hooks her arm through yours. "George said I was supposed to show you where the kitchen is, so you can just ignore my brother."   
  
"There's no cafeteria?" you ask. So much for food fights.   
  
"Not exactly. Each floor has its own kitchen. And some of the wards have their own kitchenette. When I was upstairs we had our meals right in the ward. But now we get to walk a few hundred feet. It's  _so_  exciting."   
  
"Nice use of sarcasm," you say, impressed.   
  
River smiles, pleased. "Thank you."   
  
The kitchen is about the size of Greendale's library. There are several tables and chairs, a refrigerator, stove, microwave, dishwasher. A woman in green scrubs and a hairnet is in the process of moving several platters from a cart to the counter top.   
  
"Everybody is responsible for getting their own food and cleaning up after themselves," Simon says, "just like if you lived on your own. That means you rinse your dishes and put them in the dishwasher when you're done."   
  
Adam takes a plate, reaches for a plastic fork. "Except we still don't get real silverware. At least the food's not too bad."    
  
You notice that Adam's fingernails are a pale pink. They're pretty. Pretty in pink. Which leads you into a recitation of Molly Ringwald's movies. You count them off quickly on your remaining fingers. " _Pretty in Pink, Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club, Fresh Horses, and The Pick-up Artist._ ."   
  
Adam scoops mashed potatoes onto his plate. "Those are movies, right?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
He stares at you for a long moment. His eyes look sad. Then he says, "Amanda likes _The Breakfast Club._ " He carries his plate to the table.   
  
"So do I," River says. "I saw it last year. I like it when they dance on the table." She looks at her brother with a hopeful expression.   
  
"No," Simon says. "This table is not for dancing."   
  
River carefully flicks a kernel of corn off her plate at her brother. It hits Simon's identification card and sticks. Simon doesn't notice.   
  
You and River exchange a quick grin before you ask, "You have John Hughes movies here?"   
  
River shrugs. "We have lots of movies."   
  
Twenty-three doesn't seem like 'lots' in your opinion, but it's a start.   
  
You pour yourself a glass of milk, but that's all. None of the food interests you. Besides, shouldn't they put you in some kind of Hannibal Lecter face muzzle instead of letting you walk around within biting distance of everyone?   
  
You check the refrigerator for yogurt. There isn't any. You carry your milk to the table and sit next to River.   
  
You start off with an apology. You've already lost your appetite, no sense in making the others lose theirs. "I just wanted to offer a blanket apology for the way I look. If you keep your eyes on your plate and off me, everything should be fine."   
  
River spoons some corn into her mouth, chews. "What's wrong with the way you look?"   
  
You almost give River one of Britta's eloquent duh- _doy_ s. Instead, you say: "Because I look disgusting."   
  
She keeps chewing.   
  
"You know, rotting skin, missing pieces. Zombie face."   
  
"It's hardly noticeable," Simon says quickly. "Don't worry about it, Abed."   
  
The red-haired man ignores you and just stares down at his plate. Good.    
  
Adam smirks. "You, my friend, might be more fucked up than I am." His voice sounds higher, his eyes seem more focused than there were a few minutes ago.   
  
Simon sighs. "Language, Amanda. Abed, this is Amanda."   
  
"Charmed," Amanda drawls sweetly.    
  
Oh. Adam has multiple personalities, then. Interesting.   
  
River's forehead creases. "You don't look like a zombie, you just look like a person. A brown person. Is being a zombie the same as being brown?"   
  
Simon chokes on his food, splutters at his sister. " _River_ ."   
  
"They're not the same," you say.   
  
River gives you an appraising look, as if you're hanging in a museum. "In that case...you're brown, but not a zombie." She pats your face, nearly making your spill your milk. "Brown is my favorite color. You look okay to me."   
  
She points to her plate. "Do you want a chicken finger?"   
  
"I'm not hungry," you say numbly. You stare at the chicken. Even though it's still on River's plate, you can feel it sitting in your stomach like a stone. "I was a fry cook at my school," you tell her. You're whispering, but you're not sure why.   
  
River sips her own milk. When she lowers the glass, she's wearing a white mustache. "Was it hard?"   
  
"No. It was the first time I understood what people wanted."   
  
River wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "I never know what people want," she says dismissively. "I don't even know what  _I_  want half the time. The voices in my head all want different things, especially the Hands of Blue." She frowns, pokes idly at her chicken.   
  
"But...the voices have been quiet lately," she admits softly. "I don't know if I should feel hopeful or not."   
  
You don't know how to respond to River's admission. You're not Jeff with a clever, witty comeback. You're not Annie with a bright smile and kind words. And you're not Shirley, eager to tell River that God has some kind of plan for her. All you can do is be honest, brutally so, because that's who you are.    
  
"Sometimes it's easier not to have hope," you tell her. Hope just gets in the way, lets you think things might change when they won't. Hope allows you to think you might go back to school, make films that matter, fall in the kind of love you see on the big screen. "Zombies don't have much use for hope."   
  
River lifts her head to meet your gaze. "Maybe you could be the first."   
  
* * *   
  
This is what you learn through careful observation.    
  
In this case, "careful observation" means while you listen to River on the way back to the ward. She tells you she first showed signs of schizophrenia when she was a sophomore at Harvard. The red-haired man, William Keane, is also schizophrenic. And he has PTSD and claims to have a missing daughter he's desperate to find. So far, no one knows if the girl even exists outside William's head. Adam has Dissociative Identity Disorder. He only has one alter (unlike Tara), and her name is Amanda. Amanda killed three people and tried to kill Adam's abusive father. Adam's doing better, but he'll probably never leave Silver Hills.   
  
River asks about you.   
  
"I understand when people look at me--when you look at me--they don't see the same thing I do. When I look in the mirror, I see what I really am."   
  
"A walking corpse that eats brains?"   
  
You give her a thumb's up to indicate just how correct she is.   
  
"Maybe you should stop looking in the mirror," River suggests.   
  
You laugh. If only it were that easy.   
  
You're back in the day room browsing through the DVDs when a doctor walks in. This man sports the same white coat Dr. Weston wore, but that's where the similarities end.   
  
This man is considerably younger; he doesn't look much older than you. Maybe he's not. He has a disturbing case of bed head, and beneath the coat he's dressed like he stepped out of the 1930s, complete with pin-striped vest and pocket watch. The most interesting things about him are the fact he's nearly as thin as you, and the dark shadows under his eyes. Maybe he's turning into a zombie too.   
  
"Hi Abed," he says, holding up his hand in an awkward little wave. "I'm Doctor Spencer Reid."   
  
You return the wave. "Hi."   
  
"I just wanted to let you know you'll be meeting with me, not Dr. Weston. My cousin asked if I'd look in on you myself."   
  
You tilt your head, surprised. "Your cousin?"   
  
"Annie Edison."   
  
"Annie Adderall." You don't mean to blurt Annie's old nickname, but the words are out before you can stop yourself.    
  
If Dr. Reid is surprised or offended by the nickname, he doesn't show it.   
  
You feel yourself blush. "I'm sorry. Sometimes I forget to turn my filter on," you admit. "Or to have one."   
  
Dr. Reid smiles. It makes him look even younger. "Don't worry about it. Annie's not here and I won't tell." He slips his hands into his pockets, rocks back on his heels. "Can we talk for a few minutes?"   
  
"Do I really have a choice or are you just being polite?"   
  
"My mom raised me to have pretty good manners," he admits, flashing you a crooked grin.   
  
"That's what I thought."   
  
Dr. Reid leads you into a sort of conference room across from the reception desk. There's a white board on one wall and you half expect to see Señor Chang's scrawl: _¡Silencio!_  Except Chang isn't a teacher anymore. And you're not a student.   
  
There's a round table on one side of the room, an overstuffed love seat, desk, and swivel chair on the other. He directs you to the love seat. You perch precariously on the edge.    
  
Reid flips through his notes. "I understand you had a...sort of break with reality last Christmas. Do you want to tell me about that?"   
  
You fold your arms, then immediately unfold them. You can see bone and muscle showing through a ragged hole in your right wrist. Gross. You're afraid if you're not careful, your hand will come off. And there are no robotic net arms in your future.   
  
"Why does seeing the world in a different way equal a break from reality?" You're genuinely curious. Television uses a single camera or multi-camera setup. Why shouldn't you have the same option of viewing life in more than one way?    
  
"That's how you see it? Looking at the world in a different way?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"Was it a better way?"   
  
You consider the question. "There was singing...so I'm going to say yes." You don't mention the part where your friends stood up for you. That's not something you're willing to share.   
  
"What about now?"   
  
"What about it?"   
  
"Is the way you're seeing the world now better too?"   
  
"This isn't the same thing as stop-motion, Doctor Reid. I know I'm not in a holiday episode of a TV show. I don't--I don't  _want_  to be dead." You work hard to keep your voice flat. "I just am."   
  
"Call me Spencer," the doctor tells you. "How do you know you're dead?"   
  
You are so tired of people asking you that. If they only bothered to see you instead of simply looking in your direction, they wouldn't have to ask. "Because I'm falling apart," you snap. You show Spencer your hands. "I've already lost two fingers. You can see the bones in my arm. Every day I look worse. I don't know how much longer I can last." You push yourself to your feet and start pacing. You're too cold to sit still. You have to keep moving. You shuffle back and forth while Spencer watches, no expression on his face.   
  
"I don't even know what I'm doing here. It's not like you can talk me back to life. To tell you the truth, I thought I'd be in some lab by now, being studied by scientists."   
  
"Why would scientists want to study you?"   
  
"To figure out why I'm a zombie, how I got this way. To try and understand me."   
  
Spencer steeples his hands under his chin. "Do you feel that most people don't understand you?"   
  
You stop shuffling. That's enough. You're not going to let this man analyze you, poke at your subconscious, ask about your childhood or feelings.   
  
You regard him coolly. "I'll eat your brain," you say. A warning.   
  
"Are you threatening me?" Spencer asks gently.   
  
You walk to the door, turn the knob. It takes a few tries. You never realized how useful a little finger was before. The door isn't locked, so when you finally get it open you walk out on Doctor Reid. You have nothing more to say.


	3. Understanding Abnormal Psychology

When you wake up the next morning, there's hair on your pillow. At this rate you're going to look like Dean Pelton by the end of the week. You sit on the edge of your bed and stretch. Something snaps above your shoulder blade. You imagine a cartoon window shade rolling up, spinning round and round. That's about all the complex thought you can muster. You feel lethargic. Tired. It takes you almost five minutes to remember Chandler and Joey's  _TV Guide_  subscription was addressed to Miss Chenandler Bong. That's a sure sign your brain is shutting down.   
  
You stumble down to the kitchen with the others. William and Adam ignore you, but River takes your arm again. You're glad, actually. You might fall without her support.   
  
Simon surprises you with a container of strawberry yogurt. You eat it slowly, methodically. You can't even taste it. You have that floating feeling again, like you're more balloon than boy. Not that you're a boy. You're a man now. Your mother made that clear.   
  
You're in the recliner in the day room when Spencer comes to get you. George covered you with a blanket earlier, and it's hard to keep your eyes open. Today you're wearing both sweaters and you're still cold. You'd rather stay in your blankety cocoon than go with Doctor Reid, but the man is persistent.   
  
"This won't take long," Spencer says. "I promise. I just want to show you something."   
  
It takes a while to extricate yourself from the chair. When you finally do, Spencer guides you to one of the windows. He gestures to the male nurse below. He's leaning against a tree, arms folded, cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth. The nurse is watching a boy with curly brown hair plant marigolds in a flower bed. There's a young man next to the boy, and you stare in shock as he casually picks up a handful of wood chips and stuffs them into his mouth. The nurse stalks over to the younger man and swats his arm.   
  
You can't hear what the nurse is saying, but from his expression you get the gist. Eventually the young man spits his mouthful of mulch back onto the ground, but not before he lifts his middle finger and waves it in the nurse's face. The nurse flips the bird right back at his patient.   
  
You didn't mean to be interested in what Spencer wanted to show you, but you are.   
  
"That's a unique form of therapy," you say mildly.   
  
Spencer chuckles. "Tate's a pretty unique guy." He taps against the glass with one thin finger. "You see the nurse down there?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"His name is Ray. He was attacked by a patient last year. He was stabbed."   
  
Spencer doesn't put any special emphasis on the last word, but you can tell from the way his Adam's apple bobs, it's hard for him to say.   
  
You study Ray carefully. He has an easy smile. His hair sticks up almost as much as Spencer's. You can make out the outline of a pack of cigarettes beneath his scrub top. He talks a lot, makes jokes with Tate and the curly-haired boy, his anger at Tate's snack choice forgotten. When he walks over to inspect the freshly-planted flowers, you notice he has a faint limp.   
  
"Ray died on the operating table," Spencer informs you. He speaks so softly you have to step closer to catch the words. "Does he look like a zombie to you?"   
  
You switch your gaze from Ray to the trees. You watch the leaves rustle in the wind.   
  
Spencer asks again. "Does he?"   
  
"I don't know." It's an honest answer.   
  
"Ray was revived, just like you. He lived. He healed. He is  _alive_ . And," Spencer adds, "he is my friend."   
  
From the corner of your eye, you can see River pull Adam out of the day room so you and Spencer have privacy. You wish she'd come back.   
  
"I'd like to be your friend too, Abed," Spencer says, one hand fluttering near your arm, but not actually touching you. Spencer's hand looks like a butterfly. If Troy had his robot arm, he could catch it.   
  
"I have friends," you say stiffly, hoping he picks up on the part left unsaid:  _I don't need you._   
  
"I know you have friends. Good friends. But...I think it might be hard to tell them what's bothering you."   
  
You roll your eyes. "But it won't be hard to tell you, is that it?"   
  
"I don't know," Spencer says simply, mirroring your earlier answer. He sounds just as honest.   
  
You feel light-headed so you drag yourself back to the chair.   
  
Spencer sits on the low table in front of the couch. He's facing you. "Listen to me, Abed. You have to stop starving yourself. You're a naturally thin person. If you keep this up, we're going to have to feed you intravenously."   
  
"Would you rather I ate people? I thought that was frowned upon."   
  
"You're not a zombie," Spencer says.   
  
You stop listening.   
  
"This isn't  _28 Days_  or  _Zombieland_ , Abed."   
  
You start listening again, because those are awesome movies.  _Dead and Breakfast_ is good too. Not to mention the whole George Romero oeuvre.   
  
"You know your movies," you say. You try hard not to sound impressed.   
  
Spencer nods. "I do."   
  
"Do you watch  _The Walking Dead_ ?"   
  
"No, but I read the graphic novels." He clasps his hands around one knee, leans toward you. "Can I ask why you want to be a zombie, Abed?"   
  
That's a stupid question. "I  _don't_  want to be. It's just obvious that's what I am."   
  
"I understand it's obvious to you, but it it isn't to me. What am I missing?"   
  
You roll your eyes. "Zombies never fit in. They scare and confuse people. No one understands them. Zombies don't understand emotions. Then again, emotions have never made much sense to me. It's better--" you stop abruptly.   
  
"Not to have any?" Spencer finishes gently. He lets go of his knee and rubs the back of his neck absently. "Your...episode at Christmas was caused when your mother left you. I understand she left you physically several years ago, but now she did something worse. She left you emotionally."   
  
You don't want to let on that his words bother you. You don't want to admit part of you feels betrayed that Annie told this man about you. You want to walk out on him the way you did yesterday, but you're not sure you'd get very far.   
  
"And now your father left," Spencer says. His voice is very soft. Sort of whispery. He sounds very kind. You find yourself itching to tell the doctor his tie and vest don't match, that he missed a patch of whiskers on his chin while shaving, and he should consider investing in shampoo for oily hair.   
  
"He didn't leave me," you say. The words are hard to get out. Your throat is too small.   
  
"But he's not coming back," Spencer tells you. "And that's a big loss to deal with." He rubs his hands together. "I just think, if I were you, I'd do anything to trade places with my father. That I'd do anything to get him back. Or, if I couldn't get him back, I'd figure out how to be with him. I'd want to know how  _I_  could die." Spencer looks at you with his shadowy eyes. "You're not dead, Abed. You  _want_  to be, but you're not. You're depressed. You're guilty."   
  
You shake your head. This man doesn't know you. You are not a delusional Hawkeye Pierce; you didn't see a woman smother her baby and call it a chicken. You're Radar O'Reilly. You sleep with a teddy bear and drink Grape Nehi. You're Radar, Jeff  _said_ . Only...Radar lived. He went home. So maybe you're really Colonel Blake.   
  
"Is it possible you have a hard time identifying with people, so you decided it's easier to not even try, to just give up? I think you told yourself you don't have to try because you're dead. But you're not, Abed. I'm not lying to you."   
  
You purse your lips and stare at the ceiling.   
  
"I want to help you," Spencer says.   
  
You wonder if he'll ever stop talking.   
  
You don't say anything.   
  
"It's not your fault," Spencer tells you. "It's not your fault your father died."   
  
And you don't mean to cry, you don't want to cry, you  _never_  cry, that's Troy's thing. But the tears are hot on your face and your eyes burn like you've been shot with pepper water. Your throat aches and your chest is too tight.   
  
"But it is," you say. And here, just like  _Lost_ 's season three finale, is the big reveal.   
  
* * *   
  
"I was supposed to be with him," you say.   
  
You wipe your eyes, take a deep breath. You are calm. You are Jack Bauer, minus the head in a bag. You are FBI Agent Dale Cooper. You are Oz before Willow chooses Tara. You don't know where to look. You certainly can't look at Spencer. You might be calm, but you're still ashamed. You focus on the scuffed carpet.   
  
"He asked me to close the restaurant for him. But I--I told him I was busy. And I was. Troy and I had plans to dress up as Crow and Tom Servo and make fun of Keanu Reeve's terrible remake of  _The Day the Earth Stood Still_ . I said I'd help him the next night. I even offered to work over the weekend. I picked Keanu Reeves, a man with the acting skills of a tree stump, over my father." You bow your head, feel fresh tears. "I should have been there. I should have died instead of him. Or--at the very least--with him." You shake your head in disgust. "He died alone because of me." You can't even tell him you're sorry.   
  
"Abed, your father didn't die because you chose to watch a movie. I  _promise_  you that. He died because of a faulty valve. It had nothing to do with you. He wouldn't want you to die, Abed. He would want you to live a long and happy life, not give your life up out of guilt."   
  
You ignore Spencer's weak attempt to make you feel better.   
  
"If this were the movies," you tell him, sniffing, "I'd have learned a valuable lesson. I would have realized how much Fadel Nadir loved me even though he said I was weird. My mom would have come to the funeral and told me she missed me. She'd have told me that even though I'm an adult, she'll always want me in her life. But none of those things happened. The only thing I know is, I feel more dead than alive, so why shouldn't I be a zombie? My father didn't understand me, and my mom doesn't want me," your tone is matter-of-fact. You're trying to stay calm, but only your voice seems to have the hang of it. You feel physically ill, which is disappointing. If you are a zombie (and you are, you  _are_ ), you're obviously at the remedial level. You even need a study group for zombiedom.   
  
You want a blueprint, a map, a script for how to be. How to feel. But there is none, there is no movie, no television show you can draw upon. You are lost, adrift. You're going to float away into nothingness. You grip the arms of your chair tightly, in case gravity reverses on top of everything else.   
  
You're done talking. You've already said too much. But even as you decide to keep quiet, words are coming out of your mouth. You can't be mad at Annie for talking about you when you're guilty of the same betrayal.   
  
"I just thought...if I was dead, everything finally made sense. It explained why I was so different from everyone else, why I can't connect to anyone. Why I'd rather spend time inside my head than out of it. I thought---if I said I was dead enough times, it would eventually come true."   
  
* * *   
  
You spend the next day in bed. George tries to cajole you out of your room. Simon threatens. Spencer sits in the corner, waiting for you to say something, but you're all talked out. When he tells you to stop punishing yourself, you just pull the blankets over your head.    
  
Eventually the blankets shift and River crawls in beside you. She pulls them over her head as well. You stare at each other for a while, silent.   
  
Finally, River whispers a question. "Are you hiding?"   
  
"Yes." But you're not doing a very good job.   
  
"I used to hide in my room," she says softly. "I wanted to hide from everyone. Even myself." She reaches out and gently pokes the blanket stretched above you. "Have you ever made a blanket fort? Simon and I used to make them all the time when we were little." Her eyebrows knit. "Back when hiding was fun instead of...necessary."   
  
You press your face into your pillow. You miss Troy.   
  
"Come on," River says, prodding you in the ribs. "You have to get up."   
  
"Why?" Your voice is muffled.   
  
River huffs in annoyance. "Because we need the blankets."   
  
You turn to look at her. "What for?"   
  
"Because," she says, in a tone indicating you are a complete and utter moron, "we're going to make a big ass fort."   
  
* * *   
  
Adam helps. So does George. You get the feeling building blanket forts in the day room is against nurse protocol, but George just makes a  _whatever_  face when you point that out.   
  
"Listen pal," George says, "fun is  _never_  against protocol."   
  
You're starting to feel a little better until you stand too quickly. The room spins and suddenly you're on your back looking up at River's concerned face. Simon and George are instantly at your side. They take you back to your room, deposit you into bed. Simon checks your blood pressure, George takes blood. You feel like you're stuck in a repeat of your own life.  _Zombhog Day_ .   
  
Spencer shows up a few minutes later, looking harried.   
  
"I was wrong," he says. "Apparently you  _are_  a zombie."   
  
You blink. "What?"   
  
"Your body is starting to consume itself," he says bluntly. "When you deprive your body of food, it uses your fat and muscle for nutrients. Without that fat and muscle, your body breaks down and you end up feeling extremely tired, sluggish, and drained." Spencer lifts his eyebrows. "If that doesn't sound like the walking dead, I don't know what does.   
  
"I'm not asking you to eat a three-course meal, Abed. Just something more than a cup of yogurt. Maybe some soup. Some macaroni and cheese.  _Something._ ."   
  
You study your hands. It might be your imagination, but your skin looks slightly less decayed. You can't see the bones in your wrist as well either.   
  
"Are you still missing fingers?" Spencer asks.   
  
"Yes."   
  
"Abed, I think it frustrates you that you can't control your emotions. I think it's easier for you to see yourself as literally falling apart, than to deal with your actual feelings."   
  
"I think you talk a lot."   
  
Spencer laughs. "Thank you for noticing. It's kind of my job. But you're not alone in wanting to ignore your emotions. Most people don't want to deal with them. Emotions are messy. They're hard. It can take practice to feel them, to even _recognize_  what you're feeling."   
  
"I'd rather watch television and see other peoples' emotions." They're usually more interesting. And sometimes there are theme songs.   
  
"Do you know what an ElectroLarynx is?"   
  
The question is so unexpected you sit up. You think a moment. "A voice box. For people who've had their vocal chords removed."   
  
Spencer nods. "That's right, exactly. Some people need a machine to communicate. You just happen to use a TV instead of an ElectroLarynx. You don't know how to express your own emotions, so you borrow from fictional characters. You've been speaking through television, Abed. I would like to help you learn how to communicate all on your own."   
  
Everything Doctor Reid's telling you is true. You're not sure you can change the way you communicate. You're not sure you want to. But you  _do_  want to go home. So maybe it's time you tried. Buffy would.   
  
* * *    
  
"Abed!"   
  
Annie, Troy and Jeff are all smiles as they hurry over.   
  
It's Saturday. Visiting day. The whole group wanted to come, but Doctor Reid said three visitors were enough for now.   
  
Jeff is wearing his bad ass billiards-playing leather jacket, and, incongruously, a Buster Keaton porkpie hat.   
  
"Britta made everybody watch  _Benny and Joon_ ," Jeff explains, somewhat sheepish.   
  
You stare at the hat. "Are you saying you're the Johnny Depp character?"   
  
Jeff nods. "Yes."   
  
"And I'm Mary Stuart Masterson, who portrays someone with a homogenized and vaguely comedic version of a mental illness?"    
  
"Yes."   
  
You smile. "Thank you." Mary Stuart Masterson was amazing in  _Fried Green Tomatoes_ . "So are you here to break me out of the hospital?"   
  
"Totally," Troy says.   
  
"Not yet," Annie says.   
  
"I'd say this is more of a visit," Jeff admits, removing the hat and gently setting it on your head.    
  
You consider this. "Okay, but would you walk 500 miles to fall down at my door?"   
  
"No," Jeff says with a faint smile, "but I'd drive 45 minutes in weekend traffic, trapped in a car with these two." He jerks a thumb over his shoulder at Troy and Annie.   
  
"Fair enough."   
  
They join you at the table. "Pierce offered to come, but frankly, we weren't sure they'd let him leave once the doctors got a look at him," Troy says.   
  
"I love you, Abed," Annie says abruptly, surprising you. You know she doesn't  _love you_  love you, but that's okay. Annie is still the more competent, slightly less whiny Dawn to your Buffy. It's not like you have to rescue her every week. Which is good, since you're stuck in here.   
  
She reaches for your hand. "I just want you to be okay."   
  
"I know. I'm trying to be."   
  
"Dude, look," Troy says. He points to his t-shirt. It's decorated with a screen print of the Fist Jumper picture you sent him. He grins. "Whut,  _whut_ ?"   
  
You give him a thumb's up. Cool cool cool. "Nice shirt."   
  
"Dude," Troy says desperately. "You have  _got_  to come back to school. Everyone else is boring." He looks from Annie to Jeff. "No offense."   
  
"None taken," Jeff says.    
  
Annie releases your hand and you adjust the hat. Now you kind of wish you had a cane. And a jaunty mustache.   
  
Troy grimaces. "Did you notice how rough Annie's hands are? They're like sandpaper. She has sandpaper lumberjack hands." He looks at Annie, his expression half disappointment, half reprimand. "Your hands aren't half as soft as Abed's."   
  
Annie squeaks out a horrified  _what_ , then glares at Troy. She grabs Jeff's hand. "Do this feel like a lumberjack to you?" she demands.   
  
You look at your own hands. You're not sure how soft they are at the moment, but most of the bruises and discoloration are gone. You even have all of your fingers, which: weird. But you're not going to complain.   
  
"Hey, no, definitely not a lumberjack," Jeff mutters, pulling away from Annie. He stands, grinning manically. "Anybody want some coffee?" He points to the carafe and tray of cookies on the counter. "I want coffee."   
  
"Nah. Help yourself."    
  
Jeff's smile unclenches and he gives you a very dad-like look. "Abed."   
  
Oh right. You're supposed to eat. "Can you bring me a cookie?"   
  
"I would be delighted," Jeff says, "to bring you  _two_ ."   
  
You lean toward Troy. "I asked George to make you Special Drink."    
  
"Right  _on_ !" Troy says gleefully, pumping his fist. He and Jeff head for the counter.   
  
That leaves just you and Annie. "You don't want anything?"   
  
She shakes her head. "No thank you." She folds her hands primly in her lap. "Abed, can I tell you something?"   
  
"Sure." Annie's hands don't look lumberjacky to you either. Troy's just spoiled by your Burt's Bee's hand salve.   
  
"Can we keep this between us?"   
  
"Of course."   
  
"Okay. I, um, well." She takes a deep breath, starts over. "I had a really hard time when I went to Rehab. For a little while--not for very long--but for the first few days I was really depressed over what I'd done with my life. And I kind of wanted to die. I thought about killing myself, but I chickened out because I just couldn't stand leaving a big mess for someone to clean up, you know?" There are tears in her eyes. "I'm really glad I didn't go through with it, because then I'd never have had the chance to go to Greendale. And I never would have met you."   
  
"I'm not trying to kill myself," you tell her, and then amend, "much."   
  
She wipes her eyes and laughs hoarsely. She punches your shoulder, but not hard. "Don't try at all, you big goof. Who would I watch Indiana Jones movies with, if you weren't around?"   
  
You nod sagely. "Good point."   
  
She leans forward and hugs you.    
  
You hug her back tightly. A world without Annie is not a world you're interested in visiting. You look over her shoulder and see Jeff inspecting his reflection in the metal carafe. He runs his hand surreptitiously though his hair so it looks just the right amount of tousled.   
  
"Are you mad at me?"   
  
You pull back and look at Annie, surprised. "What? Why?"   
  
Her eyes slide toward the floor and she bites her lip. "Because I talked to my cousin about you," she says in a small voice.   
  
"I'm not mad," you tell her. You're not going to punish Annie for caring about you.   
  
Annie studies your face. "So are you feeling better? Do you...do you still think you're a zombie?"   
  
"Hmm." You consider the question. "I think I'm closer to Kirsten's downward spiral on  _Party of Five_  than to żywy trup."   
  
"I'm sorry," Annie says, "but being depressed is better than being a zombie. And, my gosh, did I ever love that show! Bailey was so cute! Speaking of cute," she says, nodding toward Simon, "who's  _that_ ?"   
  
"One of the nurses. He's nice. But not as nice as George."   
  
Jeff and Troy return with their drinks and cookies. "I love George," Troy says dreamily. He sips the cold cocoa, sniffs it. "Ah," he breaths in deeply. "It smells like Rudolph nose."   
  
You slap your chest with one hand, Troy's with the other. "Word."   
  
Jeff hands you two cookies. You give one to Annie. You tap your cookies together like wine glasses, and each take a bite.   
  
Jeff stares at his mug in surprise. "Huh. This is actually decent coffee."   
  
"Yeah. Simon adds a pinch of cinnamon to every pot."   
  
Jeff nods in approval. "We should try that."   
  
River walks over, peering from behind her dark curtain of hair. She balances a plastic tray of tiny teacups easily on one hand.    
  
"Guys, this is my friend River. River, these are my friends Jeff, Annie, and Troy."   
  
River smiles shyly and offers a heart-shaped cup to each of you.   
  
"Thank you," Annie says brightly, taking a cup.   
  
You take a cup and drink delicately, your regrown pinky raised. You nod appreciatively at River. "Good call. Earl Gray is my favorite."   
  
"No thank you," Troy says politely, "I have Special Drink."   
  
Jeff takes a cup, frowns into it uncertainly. He looks up at River. "There's nothing in here."   
  
" _Doy_ ," River says loudly, blowing the hair out of her face. "Of course there's not, you boob. Like I'm going to risk you guys spilling all over the place."   
  
Annie whispers angrily at Jeff, "Haven't you ever had a tea party?"    
  
"Oh, I'm sorry," Jeff says sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "I didn't realize I magically turned into a little girl. I guess I need a refresher course in crazy pretend-time invisible tea party etiquette!"   
  
River narrows her eyes at Jeff in a way that makes you nervous. "Uh, why don't we watch a movie," you suggest, trying to diffuse the tension.   
  
Troy pulls a DVD case from his jacket pocket and holds it up proudly. "I brought Marmaduke."   
  
_Sweet._   
  
* * *   
  
The sun shines on your face. For the first time in a long while, you're not tired. Your stomach doesn't hurt. You're only wearing one hoodie, but you're not cold.   
  
You're sitting on a bench outside. Simon is walking one of the paths with William. Adam is lying on the ground, hands behind his head, looking up at the clouds. River is running lazy figure-eights, blowing bubbles from a pink bottle.   
  
George and his friend Ray are smoking a few feet away. Ray squints at you, walks over. He sits beside you.   
  
"I heard you died," he says.   
  
"I heard  _you_  died."   
  
He looks at you from the corner of his eye, exhales a lungful of smoke. "Just so you know, I'm not a zombie."   
  
You shrug, watch one of River's bubbles float toward the tree tops. "I guess I'm not either."    
  
Ray snorts derisively. "And thank Christ for that. Can you imagine how hard it would be to get chicks? I like to eat pussy, but fuck, man. Not literally."   
  
You can actually feel your face radiate heat as you blush. Now you know what would happen if you really did look at the Ark of the Covenant.   
  
You sit in silence, waiting for your core temperature to drop back toward normal. River is still blowing bubbles. She twirls, laughing, and her skirt flies out revealing striped leggings.    
  
You start tapping your knee. You have all your fingers, you might as well use them. Before you know it, you're beatboxing.   
  
Ray lifts his eyebrows, nods in approval. He flicks his cigarette butt to the ground.   
  
You hadn't planned to start rapping, but the rhythm feels good and the words start flowing.   
  
"I'm a crazy nutjob, got toys up in my attic."   
  
Ray aims a thumb at you. "He's thinner than a broomstick, brain all full of static."   
  
You grin, think fast. "I got zombie skillz, like I'm numb to the bone."   
  
River caps the bubbles, drops the bottle to the ground. She moves closer, dancing, moving her arms just the way you showed her.   
  
Adam sits up on his elbows, laughing.   
  
Ray shrugs. "He's like ET and just wants to go home."   
  
You point to George. "Let me outta here quick, one, two, three--stat!"   
  
Ray salutes you. "Good riddance kid, don't you fuckin' come back."   
  
You burst into laughter, Ray chuckles.   
  
George claps slowly. "Very nice." He gives Ray a look. "Don't ever make me listen to you rap again. I mean it."   
  
Simon stares at River's wild dance. "What in the world are you doing?"   
  
River grins at you, crooks a finger.   
  
You get up and join her, beatboxing a new rhythm.   
  
"Isn't it obvious?" she asks. "We're krumping."   
  
* * *   
  
Troy's waiting at the front entrance. He's not holding a boom box, but that's okay.    
  
He slaps your shoulder. "Welcome back!"   
  
"Thanks."   
  
Troy lowers his voice. "Look man, I gotta warn you. We're having a welcome back party thing." He steps back, studies your face. "Are you okay with that?"   
  
You think about it. "I'm okay." You reconsider and waggle your hand back and forth. "Ish."   
  
"It's whatever you want to do, Abed. I'm with you."   
  
You glance down the familiar hallway. You can imagine everyone waiting in the study room. "No, it's okay. Let's go."   
  
Dean Pelton walks past you. Stops. Backtracks.   
  
He wags a finger at you. "I'm perfectly fine with taking a bite out of crime, Abed, but I do  _not_ want you taking a bite out of any of my students. Because that  _is_  a crime. Do you understand?"   
  
"I understand," you say.   
  
Troy glares at the Dean and snaps his teeth together a few times. Troy looks more like a berserk ventriloquist dummy than a zombie, but it's a nice gesture of solidarity all the same.   
  
The Dean shrieks and scurries away.   
  
Troy grins at you. You grin back. Together, you head for the study room.   
  
Everyone is gathered in front of the table except for Pierce. Jeff steps out of the way to reveal a giant, red Jello brain on a silver tray.   
  
"I'm sorry," Britta says, clearly disgusted with Jeff. "I told him it was a terrible idea."   
  
You shake your head. "Don't worry. I like it." After macaroni and Lucky Charms, Jello is easily your third favorite.   
  
Jeff grins. "Nothing says 'we missed you' like a brain-shaped Jello mold." He points to your chair. "Can you sit, Abed? We have sort of a presentation."   
  
You sit.   
  
Annie clears her throat. She glances from face to face, then nods, like she's about to give a report. "I wanted to get you a welcome back gift," she says, twirling a strand of hair around her finger nervously. "And when I told Shirley, she wanted to do something too. So we all decided we'd get you a little something." She pulls a gift wrapped package from her backpack. "Welcome back, Abed."   
  
You reach for the present, a little hesitant. You weren't expecting gifts. You pull off the paper carefully. Inside is a journal. The cover reads  _My Favorite Movies_  in a font that looks like movie tickets. Attached to the journal with a ribbon is one of Annie's infamous purple pens. The pen has been inscribed with the words  _I love you, Abed_ . You hold the journal in one hand, the pen in the other, speechless.    
  
She smiles. "I thought maybe it would be fun to write down your favorite movies. Like, maybe it would cheer you up, give you something to do, when you're feeling down."   
  
Shirley pulls up her sleeve to reveal the bracelet she's wearing. It bears the initials WWAD. "See this bracelet, Abed? It stands for 'What Would Abed Do'. Now, I love Jesus," Shirley says, "but He's not the only one who can teach me to be a better person. You teach me how to be better every day, Abed. And this bracelet reminds me of that."   
  
"You make all of us better," Britta says, and there are nods all around the table.   
  
Troy lifts something off his chair, sets a large box in front of you. The logo  _Mrs. Fields_  provides a pretty good indication of what's inside. When you left the lid, there's a giant cookie with a dotted line of frosting down the middle. One half of the cookie reads  _Troy_ , the other half reads  _Abed._   
  
"I have learned from first-hand experience that a giant cookie is too much for one person, but  _half_  a giant cookie is just right. There's no one else I'd rather share half a giant cookie with." Troy smiles. "Together, we make one awesome friendship."   
  
You nod emphatically. "We do." You're still holding the pen Annie gave you. "Guys, I don't know what--"   
  
Jeff holds up a hand. "Uh-uh. We're not done yet. Britta?"   
  
Britta grins and bends down to pull a long package from beneath the table. It's bulky and tall, you have no idea what it could be. A large umbrella? Jeff helps her stand it in front of you. Tentatively, you pull at the ribbon that holds the wrapping paper in place.   
  
"It's for your dorm room," Britta explains, clearly excited.   
  
You stare.   
  
It's a coat rack.   
  
It's old fashioned, sturdy, made of oak. It looks kind of Art Deco. It looks like something you'd throw a fedora on. Or a purple boa. Or a bicycle helmet and goggles.   
  
"I know Britta and I treated you like one of these once, and we're sorry. We have since learned to tell the difference between you and a coat rack."   
  
Britta nods. "Definitely. We'll never treat you like one again, no matter how much we drink."   
  
Jeff slings an arm around the coat rack. "Want to watch a movie this weekend?" He glances from the coat rack to you, does an exaggerated double take. "Oops, my bad."   
  
Britta shoves Jeff, but you laugh.   
  
"Just kidding," Jeff says.   
  
"That's okay," you say, and hold out your arms. "You can hang your leather jacket right here."   
  
Everyone laughs when Jeff backs away, shaking his head vehemently.   
  
The laughter is good. It gives you a chance to think. Your brain works furiously to come up with an appropriate response to your friends' kindness. To their generosity. You should be Chandler and make a self-deprecating joke. You should say something nonsensical but funny, like Tracy Jordan. You should cry like Jack on  _Lost_ . You should break into a rousing rendition of 'Danke Schoen' like Ferris Beuller. You put a hand to your head and take a deep breath. You have all your fingers and a full head of hair. You are loved. You are not dead. You can communicate without television or movies. You  _can_ . It's just difficult--and occasionally terrifying. Even more terrifying than being a zombie.   
  
You clear your throat, but the words still come out wobbly. "Thank you."   
  
You turn to Troy. "I love being half a cookie with you."   
  
Troy envelopes you in a bear hug. You hug him back. He smells like Orange Crush, Sharpies, and popcorn. He smells like friendship.   
  
You're still hugging Troy when the rest of the group joins in.   
  
"Abed, I'm so glad you're back," Britta whispers in your ear.    
  
You look at the bracelet around Shirley's wrist and put your hand on hers. "Thank you for what you said," you say, and kiss the top of her head.   
  
"Oh my god!" Pierce shrieks from the doorway. "Abed's trying to eat Shirley's brain! Get him! No, Abed--go for the lesbian!" He grabs the coat rack and wields it like an oversized baseball bat.   
  
Jeff extricates himself from the group hug and blocks Pierce. "Abed's not eating Shirley's brain, Pierce. Calm down."   
  
"For the last time," Britta says, rolling her eyes further than you thought possible, "I'm  _not_  a lesbian."   
  
Pierce shrugs. "Don't hide your true self, Britta, or you'll end up like Abed here." He sets the coat rack down, adjusts his glasses. "As long as you're not trying to eat Shirley's brain, I'm glad they sprung you from the loony bin." He hands you a pack of handi-wipes. "Feast your eyes on these. Gen-u-wine Hawthorne Moist Towlettes. I found them in the back of a guest room closet. You're welcome." Pierce lowers his voice. "This way, if you do go completely psycho and eat someone's face, you can just wipe off the evidence like so much barbecue sauce." Peirce leans closer. "I bet they're good for wiping fingerprints from homemade bombs, too."   
  
Britta gives Pierce a withering look. "Wow. That's beautiful."   
  
Pierce beams, oblivious. "Isn't it? Sometimes I surprise myself."   
  
You look from the pack of wipes to Pierce's smiling face. "Thank you," you say. Pierce might be a doddering, misanthropic racist, but under the bluster, under the mispronunciation of your name, you know he cares. He's here, after all.   
  
"Hey man, this cookie is awesome," Troy says. "Anybody else want some? I'll share, but only for a limited time." He glances at his watch. "You have 30 seconds starting... _now_ ."   
  
You point to your half of the cookie. "Help yourself, you guys."   
  
You return to your usual chair and watch the others break off pieces from your giant cookie of friendship. Your face hurts from smiling.   
  
Annie hugs you from behind. "Don't ever leave us again," she says into the side of your head.   
  
You look up at her, lift an eyebrow.   
  
"Or what?"   
  
She smiles innocently. "I've still got your bottle of chloroform, you know."   
  
You both laugh, but you get the feeling she's not entirely joking. That's okay.   
  
"All right everybody," Jeff calls, holding a giant spoon above the Jello. "It's time for cherry-flavored brains. Who wants the first bite?" Everyone turns to look at you.   
  
"Don't worry," Britta says. "If this is too gross, you can just dump the whole thing on Jeff's head. As a supportive friend, I'd be happy to help."   
  
Jeff elbows Britta. "Nobody asked for your input." He looks at you expectantly. "What do you say, Abed?"   
  
You look at your friends. You look from the pen to Shirley's bracelet to the coat rack to the cookie crumbs on the table. You can't always understand your friends' emotions or responses, but you can feel how much they love you. Your mom moved on and your dad is gone, but you're not alone. For the first time since the police called about your father, there's a flicker of something in your chest. It's not hope. It's not even happiness. It's just...life. You feel alive. You  _feel_ .   
  
"I could go for some brains," you say, and mean it.


End file.
